Attempt Number Two
by yarnybear
Summary: Um...yeah...since I just chose a random word for the title, I certainly can't fill this in, right? All I can say is, it's about a gladiator. So, just read and tell me what you think, or I'll be moving on to other stories. R&R, please.
1. Caecilia

My new story. Once again, non canon characters, but since this is a fanfic, I have to use at least a bit of the original story. So this is in the PJO universe, millennia before Percy Jackson's time.

If you're smart, that's good for you, and you know when this story is set.

Hopefully, I'll write a second chapter, and include a character from another of my stories.

**Chapter 1**

**Caecilia**

The Iron Gate stood in front of her, a door made of iron strips melded together, to make a weaving of a metal tapestry. The gate threw a speckling of shadows over her face, leaving one side of her face in the darkness, while another part was blinded in the hot noonday sun.

Caecilia stood behind the gate, her legs quivering in anxiety and nervousness. Her sweaty hands gripped the hilt of her sword, bleaching her knuckles a ghostly white. Her feet shifted on the sandy cobbles, and the sword in her hand tapped the floor; she was unable to hold her arm steady.

The sword was a gladius, a heavy, sturdy, bronze affair that gave her a name. It wasn't much of a name, but it wasn't the name of a miserable servant in the house of a plebian. Her name made her a slave: Gladiator.

Caeicilia belonged to the School, the largest in all of Rome. And today was to be her last fight.

Most fights she thought of as her last, because things were never certain here. She was never sure if she'd be here another day, perhaps hired by a local family as a guard or servant. But that had never happened to her, not in the seven years she had slaved here, stuck in the School.

There were no assurances at the school: Everything was hung from a tremulous thread, and you were taught to take everything you were given and not to ask questions. This was no different for Caecilia.

And this was _definitely_ her last fight. Because she had faithfully served her seven years, as was required. And today, if she was lucky and won her match, then her name would be struck off the roll. And if she wasn't, then she'd be dead, and there wouldn't be any more matches to fight.

So few of the gladiators' names had been struck off the roll after their seven years of service. So very many had their names crossed off because they had been killed. Killed for the entertainment of the consul or dictator or whoever held the ever changing position of emperor.

But some part of Caecilia loved the fights. She loved the action, the dance of the swords, and the careful waltz of the sandaled feet. And the cheers of the crowd after another gladiator had been dispatched. She loved the admiration of the crowds, and the flowers and trinkets they threw at her. One fat, red faced man had thrown a gold brooch at her once. It was worth about an aureas, and that meant that the man had money.

And Caecilia watched through the holes in the Iron Gate, reminiscing, thinking about what might be and what might not, because there were no firm assurances in the School.

Caecilia jerked back to herself as the Iron Gate began to slowly lift upwards, like a portcullis. Her breathing started to get more erratic, and her palms covered the hilt of her sword in a thin film of sweat, making it slippery.

The Gate lifted up with a creak and the sound of stone on stone. There was a jingling of chain, and then the Gate was up fully up.

The shadows were gone from Caecilia's face, and her mouth was set in determination. This was always the most difficult part, the walk from the Gate to the sand covered pit that was the Circus Maximus.

The spectators were seated in rows about, and the sun was high in the sky, beating down with its oppressive heat. Caecilia walked, and her feet were slick with sweat, the buckler on her arm swinging.

She saw that figure on the opposite side of the amphitheater, a person leaving the recesses of the opposite gate, the Bronze Gate. And as the person reached the light, Caecilia finally saw her for who she was.

Aquila. She was Caecilia's best friend, who had brought her water when she had been stabbed in a fight. She bound Caecilia's wounds and shared her meat gruel and broke her bread.

There weren't very many real friendships at the School, just alliances based on need, and favors to be returned. But Aquila was a real friend, one who cared and who had served the seven years with Caecilia.

Dimly, Caecilia remembered that this was Aquila's Last Fight, the fight that could set a person free – or let her die in agony. But Caecilia needed to be out, to be in the sun with the papers of a free man – or woman. And to see the stars again, after seven years of being cooped up in the barracks, mess hall, or parade ground.

Caecilia walked forwards, going closer and closer to her fate, whatever that was. And her sword swung at her side. Aquila was nearing, too.

Her lips moved, but Caecilia was unable to hear over the voices of the crowd. They were excited to see a fight to the death, a fight advertised as one of two highly seasoned, well trained, seven year slaves.

But Caecilia could understand the gist of it. It was a few words of apology, and a bit of shame and anger at the Director who made them fight, just to gain a few sestertii. Caecilia felt the same way herself, and replied with a few soft words, unheard over the noise of the bloodthirsty spectators.

They circled each other, their footsteps assuming the age old practice steps. The steps that they had practiced for seven long years. They knew all of each other's weaknesses and strengths. This was a fight to death, and one that would make the other lose a valued friend.

_Crack! Clash! Schlick!_

Their swords met in a flurry of sparks. Caecilia held her buckler over her head, warding off a heavy blow from Aquila that numbed her arm and made her almost drop her sword. Step, step, step, turn, strike! Her feet automatically followed the practice routines, her sword swinging in harmonic deftness with Aquila's.

Aquilla feinted left, bringing Caecilia to cover her left side with her buckler. But she realized it was a trick, and with a cry, she just avoided a sharp cut to her right side.

Step, step, duck, step. Their feet scuffed up the sandy floor of the amphitheater, avoiding the clumps of red sand stained by blood. That stand was slippery and if one was not cautious, it could bring a gladiator to her knees, to receive the death blow.

Step, step, step, right, riposte! Caecilia swung at Aquila, but she already knew her routine, sending a counter riposte back. They fought together, their bronze swords weaving a mesh of coppery silver.

The spectators leaned forwards expectantly, every time one of them almost got the other. They groaned with disappointment when Aquila missed a jab at Caecilia.

But after a few minutes of fighting, sweat dripped from their brows and stung their eyes, making them itch terribly. Caecilia's arm was visibly shaking from taking all those blows with her buckler. And Aquila was growing more weary: her steps weren't as vigorous as before – she began to skip steps.

And when Aquila grew more careless with her exhaustion, Caecilia knew that she was at her end, too. So she decided to risk it, because she knew she couldn't go on forever.

So she let Aquila get her in the leg, let Aquila cut her deeply with her gladius. And Caecilia almost regretted her decision, with that awful pain and the warm trickle of blood that dripped down her greaves.

But she let her desperation wash away her fear and pain. Caecilia made her limp seem more pronounced than it really was. It wasn't all that deep, but Aquila wouldn't know.

She hobbled forwards, and the crowd leaned closer to them, their eyes bright, waiting for Aquila to finish her off.

But Caecilia saw that Aquila was walking forwards, her legs trembling with just the effort of keeping her up.

"I'm sorry, Caecilia. But one of us has to…" Aquila smiled, a sad smile that showed the mental agony she was trapped in. She had to kill her best friend.

Caecilia's head was bent down, and her heavy bronze helmet obscured her face. As Aquila walked forwards, she swung her leg out, the leg that supposedly was cut and bleeding and broken.

Caecilia gritted her teeth; swinging that leg out took effort and concentration, to get it exactly right. She had never done this trick before, but Dusan, a former gladiator now freed, had said she had her Last Fight with this. Dusan was now a lanista, a gladiator manager.

And it worked the way Dusan had described at the mess hall. Aquila was tired and she tumbled down, her body hitting the stained sand with a muffled thump. Half of the audience began to groan; their bets with the School bursar were now lost.

Caecilia stood over Aquila, leaning on her gladius for support. Aquila sprawled on the ground in an untidy heap, too exhausted to even attempt to get up.

"Come on, Cec, end me!" she whispered. "You deserve it. You won. I never anticipated Dirty Dusan's trick."

And Caecilia, with just a hit of guilt and the goading of the Mercuries in the corner, decapitated her one and only true friend.

The crowd roared, and the man in the toga in the best seat in the house looked attentive for once. A few enameled bracelets found their way onto the sand, and a gold necklace hit the ground in front of Caecilia. She picked it up with a churning stomach, but pocketed it. Another rule in the Ludus Magnus School: Always take what you're given and ask for more.

So she picked up the bracelets; they could be pawned for some extra coins. She watched in silence as the Mercuries, with their hooked staffs, pulled Aquila's body out of the ring. A few of them raced into the arena to rake the sand and make it more presentable for the next group of gladiators, the fighters of the tridents and nets.

Dusan called to her from the Iron Gate. But Caecilia couldn't hear her words over the crowd, who was now leaving the stands to receive the money they had won from bets, to get snacks, to relieve themselves, and to make some new bets on the retiarii, the net fighters.

Dusan gestured with her hands, and Caecilia nodded, walking toward her, her buckler cradled limply in her tired hands. She had seen and done this so many times. After a win, she'd get washed up at a bathhouse and get extra barley at supper. But since this was her Last Fight, things would probably be different.

She followed Dusan inside, to the Master's office. And then Dusan opened the door that she had never had opened for Caecilia in seven years, and pushed her in, taking her helmet, gladius, and buckler.

Caecilia stood in the office, watching the Master's scribbling quill cross a sheet of heavy, expensive parchment.

After a few minutes of awkward silence, the Master looked up, his dark eyes and patrician nose staring down at her. Even if he was sitting at a heavy cedar wood desk, and she was standing up.

"You have won your Wooden Foil of graduation." He sighed, and then picked up the sheet of parchment, waving it in the air to let the ink dry. "Your personal belongings have already been packed by Dusan, and you'll be out by the end of the day. You have won this for your service-" He tossed a small bag of coins to her "-and I expect you won't grace our halls with your presence. In fact, I would prefer it that way."

He folded the parchment up and handed it to me. "Dusan will be outside with your foil. Good luck."

Caecilia walked outside, the coins and sheet of parchment gripped tightly in her hands. Dusan handed her a bag of her scanty possessions, and the Wooden Foil.

"Good bye, gladiatrix," she said, her large callused hands patting Caecilia on her shoulder.

And so Caecilia left the Ludus Magnus, never to return again. She decided to travel: After all, what should one do with one's life, when one is poor with low caste? And thus begins Caecilia's adventures to far off lands, which shall be further explored in possible future chapters.

**Author's Note: Finally finished! I have a few other stories that I need to put down into words. It always pains me to condense the movie in my head into mere words.**

**But hopefully, another story will have canon characters.**


	2. Demand a Hand

Yeah, I should develop the main character more, and she really should feel more. And if you read on, I've added some stuff.

**Chapter 2**

**Demand the Hand**

It didn't hit Caecilia what she had done, done to her best friend until later. She had kept it at the back of her mind for most of that day, like a vague memory of a dream of long ago. But as she was wandering around the streets of Rome, her thoughts traveled back over the years.

And she realized that she'd never ever speak with or fight with or practice with Aquila. Aquila, the first person to talk to Caecilia after she was sold to the school by her master.

Caecilia had belonged to a scholar, years ago. But then that kind old man had died, leaving her, his prized team of matched bays, and his house to his nephew, son of his sister. When the nephew, Flavius, had accumulated a large gambling debt, and his creditors were knocking on his door, he sold Caecilia for money.

"A slave is always easy to get; Rome has captured so many from conquering foreign lands. But a team of matched bays of this quality is hard to find." He had said, at the Master's office. And she had never looked back, until today, when she was reminded of all that loss.

Caecilia meandered around the narrow streets till nightfall, when a rowdy gang of young men invited her to drink with them at a small wine shop.

And Caecilia accepted, taking up a clay cup off the heady, sour wine that was poured from an urn in the corner. The night passed on, Caecilia drinking more to wash away her sorrow, anger, and most of all, guilt.

Another cup clattered hollowly on the sticky wooden table, to be filled once more by the serving wench. And by that time, mostly everyone was drunk. Bawdy bar ballads were yelled at the top of voices, and intoxicated people were calling for the servers to bring another round of drinks. But then the scene started to get ugly.

"You're nothing more than a courtesan!" a man in a now stained toga called to Ceacilia, "You've got the infamia hanging over your head, and you're not even fit for the Legion!"

Caecilia, inebriated and swaying on her feet, stumbled over. "What did you say, scum?"

"I'm no scum, like you!" He spat, splashing half a cup of wine on Caecilia, "I am a senator's son, Caius Octavius! And you are not fit to lick my feet, slave."

Caecilia staggered, the wine making her dizzy and angry. She was so very furious at this no good, spoiled rotten bastard, and the wine had taken away her cautiousness and buried her guilt. For now.

So she pulled a knife on Caius Octavius, and stuck it through the soft flesh of his forearm, making him cry out in pain.

The whole wine shop erupted in chaos, Caius's friends helping him up and pushing the tables over in their haste to get to Caecilia.

Caecilia did the only reasonable thing. She ran, her wobbling feet hitting the pavement, almost twisting her ankle when she hit a pothole. Caecilia could hear the pounding feet and cries of Caius's friends, following to seek revenge and punish the ex-slave who had dared to hurt a senator's son.

She reached a Roman road just as the heavens opened up and doused the world with great sheets of rain. The road was slippery, because the middle part was raised up, letting the water flow down the sides to the water carrying ditches.

The cries of the men had faded away, and Caecilia was left with a fuzzy head and a bitter sadness that was looming closer.

_Slap, slap, slap, slap._

Caecilia's feet slipped and slid in the mud, and she splashed through holes in the cobbles, muddying her already filthy legs. The rain dripped down her sopping hair, unfurling the carefully tied knots.

Her thoughts always wandered back to Aquila and Caius and her new affinity for maiming and killing people. At least, hopefully, Caius wasn't dead. She had stuck the knife through his arm, not his soft stomach. Or the hollow under his collarbone.

But Aquila was dead and gone, dead and gone, dead and gone. She had been Caecilia's trusted comrade for years and years, and now she was dead.

It seemed that everyone was dying. And Caecilia wanted to end her misery and guilt and shame. After all, what kind of monster beheads her own one, true friend?

Caecilia's linen chiton was wet, and it chafed her. It was heavy and clingy and soaked through, making her even colder. Her teeth chattered, and she grew tireder and tireder after running for another few minutes.

Her breath was coming out in short burst, burning her parched throat and making her lungs ache. Her legs were heavy, too: It was hard work slogging through the water, now that it was rising and had to waded through.

--

Caecilia woke up. It was still raining, a slight drizzle. Her head ached, and was cold and was stuck into something. It didn't feel like her pillow. She looked down. It was cold, sticky, black mud that covered the half of her face that lay in it. The other side was wet and cold.

She pushed herself up, her body leaving an imprint in the mud. It squelched, sticky and soft. Caecilia had been lying in the ditch on the side of the road. She probably had fallen asleep from exhaustion from running. And the mud had cushioned her fall, but she had slipped to the ditch during her unconsciousness.

"Well, well, well. Poor girl, need a hand?" A man leaned against a nearby olive tree, looking at his fingernails nonchalantly. "You look a bit dirty. There's a speck of mud, right there."

Caecilia gritted her teeth, and pulled herself out of the mud. "Who are you? And who are you to bother about the business of others?"

She noticed that he had close cropped hair, like that of the Legions, to keep the fleas and lice out. The bowed branches of the olive tree shadowed his features, but she could see his cruel smile and his feet in expensive, tooled leather sandals.

"You cannot tell? The people here are so ignorant!" he complained, shaking his head and buffing his nails. "I can give you a clue. God of war."

"Um…." Caecilia pulled a large piece of dried mud off her arm. "Mars? But I didn't know the gods existed."

"Yes, I am Mars, or Ares," he snapped angrily, "anyways, I was there when you won your Wooden Foil, and I admire you talent. I have come to wed you and take you to Olympus."

"I don't want to marry you, Mars, or Ares, or whatever you deign to call yourself!" Caecilia cried, her fists raised. "I suggest you leave, or I'll…I'll…"

"Stab me with a frog sticker like you did to Caius Octavius, when he was drunk?" he snarled, stepping out of the shadows. He had angry red eyes, not the bloodshot kind, but the irises were reddish orange. "I know what you did, and I don't suppose Senator Octavius will be pleased to know what happened to his precious son and only heir. You might have to go to prison."

"You…you're going to blackmail me?" Caecilia hissed, her muddied hand flying out and smacking Ares right on the face, leaving a sticky black hand prink on his cheek. Somehow, something about him made her unreasonably angry. She was good at holding her temper in check, but this time, something had snapped inside of her.

His eyes widened, and he strode forward, an impossibly long step. And now he was right in front of Caecilia, grabbing her wrists with his heavy, strong hands. "You _will do_ what I say. This is something that millions of girls would die for, to go to Olympus and be with a god."

"That's not something I would die for," she spat right in his face.

His jaw tightened, and he continued holding her, his relentless grip burning her arms. And literally burning her.

Reddish fire blossomed around his hands, and it burned Caecilia, making her writhe in agony as her flesh seared. It wreathed the two with the smell of burnt flesh, the smell of overcooked meat.

"I…I…" she managed to choke out, gasping as the heat struck her again, and smoke drifted from his hands.

"Yes, my dear?" his face drew closer, and Caecilia could smell the rotting meat and the sharp tang of iron and smoke. "You were saying something."

"Oh, really, Ares, or whatever you call yourself, you'd sink to depths this low?" A man stepped out from behind the olive tree, the leafy branches rustling. "Really, I'd never think you'd do something like that. I bet you even poisoned the 'frog sticker' blade just to be extra careful. You're not that good at set ups.

"You want her to leave Rome and not come back, because then she'd be convicted guilty for murder. And then you'd sire a couple of children and never come back.

"Seeing you fail always made my day. And it'll continue to make me laugh. Hah!" he snorted, walking forwards, a grey cloak streaming behind him, even if there was no wind and he wasn't going fast enough for that to happen. And for some strange reason the hem never touched the ground and got wet or muddy.

"Now, if you'll excuse me…" He reached Ares, and pulled his hands from Caecilia's wrists with just a soft touch.

Ares looked like he was in pain, but the man's movements were so light and gentle, his voice airy and distant.

"I thought that you were rafting the Ganges, Wanderer!" he snapped, pulling his hands from the man's. "Why don't you just go back to your own territory?"

"Oh, I am in my territory. Where ever I happen to be is mine, and I think you shouldn't be trespassing, Ares." He smiled, and Caecilia saw the pointed, shiny teeth.

Ares shrunk away, and turned to look at Caecilia, one long, lingering look.

"Shoo, fly!" The man, the Wanderer, fluttered his hands in Ares's direction. "Begone or you'll feel the teeth of a hungry bear!"

Ares took the hint and started running, jumping lightly from the over the potholes, his bronze armor gleaming in the sunlight as a stretch of cloud broke apart and then reformed.

The man turned to Caecilia, sticking out his hand. "I am Aurelias, the Wanderer, the Traveler, and the Fleet of Foot. That Ares is one nasty piece of work. You'll be on his bad side now."

**Author's Notes: This chapter took me a while. The combination of tests and quizzes and studying and homework has brought me to my knees. It's almost the end of the school year, too. **

**And today, May 2****nd****, is the day before my birthday. I'll be fourteen. Happy birthday to me!**


End file.
